Remembering the Past
by CherryBlossoms29
Summary: As Sherlock's Father passes on, a shocking and painful truth about Sherlock's past is exposed. But will the unveiling of the past spark something in the boys? Rated T for future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Sighing, John walked down the street, groceries in hand, his arms shaking from the weight that rested on his arms.

"Damn it, Sherlock, why can't you help sometimes?" he murmured to himself before opening the door of 221B Baker Street. He walked briskly to the kitchen as he felt his arms giving out under the groceries, and plopped them onto the counter.

"Sherlock? Are you here?" he called out to the seemingly empty apartment.

No response.

This was unusual, as Sherlock would usually text him before leaving for Bart's or to a crime scene, and John decided to look around the small apartment to see if Sherlock was here, just sleeping, or merely didn't here him call out.

John took the stairs two at a time, bounding effortlessly to his room, throwing the door open to an empty room that was filled with the light of the sunset. He then proceeded to check all the rooms upstairs, before bounding down the stairs again. After checking the living room and the kitchen for the second time, when he opened the door to Sherlock's room, he was there. Lying on his side, his face pale white, and his phone lay in his hand. He was clutching it so hard that it looked like the phone was about to break in half.

In a state of sudden fear, John practically dived down to Sherlock's level, observing him more thoroughly. Sherlock's eyes looked dazed, and the light, vibrant blue of them had seemed to fade to a melancholic, deep blue. His knuckles were white where he was clutching his phone, and John reached up to slowly pull his fingers off the phone, fearful he could break a few bones in his hand. It wasn't impossible, he thought, he's seen something like that happen before. After all, he was a doctor.

Sherlock had a blank expression on his face, but John picked up a hint of pain across the man's face. Gently, ever so gently, he whispered to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what...what is it? What happened?"

Finally recognizing that John was present, Sherlock's eyes moved to look into John's. He stared for a while, taking in John's worried expression, deducing what he felt inside.

"John..." Sherlock croaked out.

"I'm here Sherlock, what is it?"

Sherlock's brain started to finally register and operate again, and he sat up slowly.

"My father..." he murmured, looking away. "He died. Last night."

John was so taken aback that he was speechless. So many words, phrases and sentences ran through his brain, and he couldn't comprehend what his brain wanted him to say.

"I'm...I'm so sorry Sherlock. I didn't know you were close to-"

"I wasn't," Sherlock cut John off, looking slightly sternly at John. "I wasn't close to him. Not at all."

"Then why are you so ups-"

"I don't want to talk about it, John." he cut John off again.

"Please, Sherlock. I want to help, even if you say you aren't upset about it. I thought I was your...your friend, after all." He replied, looking into Sherlock's eyes again, recognizing the light blue colour slowly seep back into his eyes. The colour he loved most.

Getting up suddenly, Sherlock walked across the room, staring out the window of the second-story apartment, looking down at all the people passing in cars, cabs. People holding hands as they walked, people laughing, smiling. Oh how he hated those people. He hated how happy and carefree they were. He only wished he could be like that, too.

He realized that the only way to tell John was to show him. He couldn't put the numerous incidents into one speech that explained everything. Slowly, he started to unbutton his shirt, before silently slipping it off.

John stared as Sherlock's shirt slipped off his shoulders. Scanning his back for clues as to what Sherlock was actually doing, his sight froze on the middle of his back.

"Sherlock..." he whispered, taking a few steps towards him to get a better view.

Sherlock's back was laden with scars. Scars that were raised, scars that were deep, scars that weren't deep at all, and scars that were centimetres thick. White lines covered his back.

Turning around to John, Sherlock gave John a moment to process what his chest and stomach was laden with, too.

John gasped as he saw the large scars that were present on Sherlock's chest. They were much larger than the ones on his back. On his stomach were pink burn marks.

He stammered for words, taking in all the information he was just given about Sherlock. But when he looked up at the man before him, Sherlock was smiling.

"Why are you smiling?" John asked, looking inquiringly at Sherlock.

"Because, all this time, I've...I've been wanting to tell you. Trust me, John, I have," he looked down into John's eyes. "I wouldn't know how to explain to you if you just happened to see them one day, if, for some odd reason my shirt wasn't on," he continued, realizing how much that implied. "I'm not upset at my Father's death. Rather, I'm unscathed. I could not care whether that man was alive or not." Sherlock noticed John's puzzled expression as he eyed Sherlock up and down, observing his scars, the burn marks, occasionally touching them gently, a feeling Sherlock wanted to savour. No one had ever shown much care towards him as John did. But he dismissed the thought of John caring for him as a sign of attraction towards Sherlock. After all, John was a doctor. It was in his nature to care about people before him. Sherlock wasn't special out of all the patients he's cared about.

"It's not hard to deduce, John." he said, half-smiling. "My father was mentally ill, I'm sure my whole family was. At first, I thought it was just because my parents preferred Mycroft over me. I was always the sociopath. I was always locked away in my room, conducting useless experiments that my parents loathed. The amount of money I needed to conduct those experiments added to the tedium.

"One day my father had enough. He bought me into his room and took my shirt off. He..." Sherlock paused and squeezed his eyes shut, mentally kicking his brain for allowing the emotional pain enter his heart again.

"He started to whip me. I screamed and screamed, but Mother and Mycroft didn't hear me. Sometimes I wonder if they did, they just ignored it...

He whipped me almost daily. Whenever I entered my room for anything other than sleeping, he would do it again. As I got older, he started to resort in other means of pain for me, burning, cutting..." Suddenly, Sherlock laughed. "I've never really received love from anyone. I started to wonder why Mycroft wasn't harmed. Why..." his voice faltered. "Why didn't he hit Mycroft?"

"Sherlock..." John murmured, looking straight into the man's eyes. The look was reciprocated, and they stood like that for a few moments, savouring how they both felt when they stared into each other's eyes.

Sherlock abruptly looked away and grabbed his shirt, tugging it back on.

"I have to go out," he said sternly, stalking out of the room and down the stairs.

"Sherlock, stay, pl-"

The door slammed shut.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you all for the continuous support on this story! It's really helped me. Please be aware this is an AU.**

**Thank you and enjoy!**

John sat awake on the couch, staying still to try hear any noise that would sound like Sherlock coming back home. Thoughts still flooded his mind, the thoughts of Sherlock's scarred back, the way they stood for a few moments staring into each other's eyes. Why did he suddenly rip his shirt back on and storm out the door? Perhaps John did something wrong, maybe he stared at Sherlock too long, maybe he looked too caring. Sherlock can always see what you're feeling, it's what he does. The only consulting detective in the world. His consulting detective...

John awoke the next morning, light streaming through the windows. He thought that it must only be sunrise, as the light was bright and orange, rather than the soft light of mid morning or midday. Groaning, he sat up, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. When his eyes focused, he jumped when he saw Sherlock sitting on the leather armchair across from the double-seated couch John was lying on. On the coffee table lay a tray of tea, already brewed and made, steam rising from the cups.  
"Sherlock?" he said, rubbing his eyes again, allowing his eyes to adjust to his current surroundings.  
"John," Sherlock replied. His voice sounded deeper than usual, signalling to John that something was clearly bothering Sherlock.  
"We need to talk," he continued, obviously not realizing how utterly cliche the phrase was.  
"About what?" John asked cautiously.  
"Us," Sherlock said, getting out of the armchair and picking up a cup of tea, handing it to John. "Drink," he murmured, "It will wake you up a little bit. I don't want you to be forgetting what I am about to consult you about due to your exhaustion."  
Nodding, John accepted the cup of tea, smiling inside as the warm liquid ran down his throat, tasting the familiar and rather comforting taste of honey that he always loved in his tea, and he was happy Sherlock knew how to make his tea.  
Sherlock eyed John, piercing him with his stunning blue eyes as he waited for John to wake up a little bit.  
"Now," John proclaimed, clearing his throat, "What is this oh-so important thing about us you want to talk about?"  
Sherlock immediately looked away as John bought it up again.  
"Sherlock," John said, leaning forward slightly to look curiously at Sherlock, "What is it?"  
"What did you think when you saw my back? Don't sugar coat it either, I want to hear what you really thought." Sherlock said sternly, his piercing blue eyes staring into John's.  
"Well," John cleared his throat, "It shocked me, at first, my mind was a bit slow in realizing... but when you told me your story, I... I wanted to pound your father's face in, because I don't like when people hurt you or threaten you..."  
"Why?" Sherlock interrupted.  
"Because you're my...my best friend."  
Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, before they narrowed, looking at John. "I am?"  
"Well, yeah," John replied, sipping at his honey-filled tea again.  
"What else did you think?"  
"I..." he started, before shaking his head, placing his tea back on the coffee table and getting up. "It doesn't matter," he murmured, and starting walking towards his bedroom when a hand caught his arm, stopping him in his tracks.  
"It's important because I want to know whether you're digusted in me or something along those lines..." Sherlock looked away, his hand still grabbing onto John's arm, like he was expecting him to run as soon as he let go.  
"Why would I be disgusted in you? It's not like you did this to yourself. Your father-"  
"I did some of it." He admitted sternly before sighing. "Of course I don't mean that I whipped myself, that I caused these scars on my back. But at one point I was so sick of that miserable sod whipping and cutting me that I...took it out on myself." Sherlock ripped up his shirt sleeve, exposing it to the early morning light, and the thin white scars were barely visible - but they were there.  
John was lost for words again, he just stared at Sherlock's arm and resisted the urge to touch them in a comforting and curious way.  
"I stopped as I grew older, of course, I realized it wasn't good for me, and my life was a little less miserable when I moved out of my parent's house. That's why I thought you might be disgusted in me..."  
"Sherlock..." Sighing, John looked up at Sherlock, locking eyes with him again. "I could never be disgusted in you, especially for something like that, and even so, it was in the past."

Sherlock's eyes softened, and his mind raced as he stared at John. He suddenly felt warmth slowly fill this chest, he felt like he wanted to protect John with all he had. John. The name felt as familiar as getting up in the morning. It was this John who had killed a serial killer disguised as a cabbie, who had run numerous blocks, in alleyways, over fences. He had always been there when Sherlock went on cases, and he was always there waiting for him if Sherlock had to leave London. He felt an overwhelming urge to keep John his blogger; his only friend. Now that he thought about it, whenever John had a new girlfriend, he felt sad for some reason, and he never knew why, but he knew now.  
John could see that Sherlock's mind was ticking away when his eyes started to jolt back and forth slightly, still half staring at John. "Sherlock, what is-"  
John was interrupted by Sherlock's lips violently pressing against this own. There they both stood, rigid and still, as their lips connected. John's eyes were wide open whereas Sherlock's were closed, before he quickly pulled away in embarassment and realization of what he had done. He felt like a small puzzle piece that was hidden inside his heart had been successfully filled as he kissed John, and as he realized that he had feelings for John, he didn't know if it was sexual or romantic, but he knew it was there.  
When his brain finally recognized John and the expression on his face, his heart sank.  
"Sherlock...what was-"  
"Experiment," Sherlock interrupted, turning away from John and heading towards the kitchen, pretending like nothing happened and that everything was normal. But everything was far from normal. He took one look at John after the kiss and he immediately deduced him and his emotions. John was confused, and slightly irritated, and Sherlock knew he didn't feel the same as he felt about John.

Now on the other side of the room, John's head swirled with thoughts. Surely he was hallucinating, Sherlock couldn't have kissed him. This was Sherlock, the Sherlock who solves crimes in a matter of hours, the Sherlock who is particular about everything he does, the Sherlock who is unscathed when it comes to seeing a dead or mutilated body. John wondered, however, whether this immunity to shock when a dead or bloody body was shown to him was because of all the blood that would have been shed when he was being whipped, cut and burned by his father, and he cringed at the thought of Sherlock being beaten by anyone; besides the time when John himself had punched him, but that was necessary in a case of course. (Kind of)  
Now that he thought about it, Sherlock did amaze him in every way. He was amazingly smart, full of knowledge about, well, everything, and he could deduce anyone and their lives in a matter of minutes. The thought of John having feelings for this man was a harsh pill to swallow - he had never considered himself gay. He didn't have a problem with it however, it just felt...different.  
"John," a voice called from the kitchen, snapping John out of his thoughts, "Would you like some tea?"  
"Uh," he replied, stammering, "Yes, thanks." and he heard the clinking of tea cups from the kitchen.

Sherlock started boiling the water for the tea, and as he was waiting he looked at his forearm and the thin white lines that covered it. He wasn't being honest to himself when he told John about it, he did miss the way the blade felt on his skin, the way the blood slowly seeped out. He remembered when he was young, that for 20 or so minutes he would just stare at the ever-increasing amount of blood that crawled down his arm.  
Why not again?


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the very late update! I have been extremely busy lately, I hope you all forgive me! Well here's the latest instalment. Hope you enjoy!  
**  
"Sherlock, how long has it been since you last ate?" John asked as he looked at Sherlock who was busy conducting one of his experiments under the microscope, probably analysing some sort of chemical or bacteria.

"What day is it?" He replied, a hint of melancholy and boredom in his voice.

"Sunday,"

"4 days then. Actually," Sherlock said, glancing at his watch, "4 days, 5 hours and 28 minutes." He shrugged slightly as he turned his attention back to the microscope.

"Nope," John got up from his armchair and stared at Sherlock. "We're going out, and you're eating. You'll waste away if you don't eat; and don't give me any of this 'the body-"

"Is merely transport for the mind," Sherlock interrupted.

Sighing, John grabbed Sherlock's bare arm, preparing to hoist him up, when suddenly, he felt a strange texture on Sherlock's skin. Curious, he tried to slightly twist Sherlock's arm so he could see what it is, but his plan was soiled when Sherlock yanked his arm out of John's grip and stood up quickly.

"Fine then," he growled, stalking away and coming back a minute later in his long black coat and blue scarf.

"Sherlock, what was that on your arm?"

"Skin, John."

"No, on your skin,"

Sherlock shrugged and started downstairs.

"You coming?" He called.

John sighed as he followed Sherlock down the stairs, but his mind was still fixed and confused about what he felt on Sherlock's arm.

"Sherlock, calm down, your food will be here soon." John sighed as he watched Sherlock fidget and writhe as he waited impatiently for his food. John didn't blame him; his brain finally rendered his body's messages, and hunger crept up on him again.

"Remind me why I don't eat." Sherlock exclaimed, piercing John with his blue eyes, looking at him, eyebrows set in an irritated way.

"Because you're an idiot." John replied, smiling.

"Not idiotic, perhaps I'm just too engulfed in my experiments. Studying the blood vessels in the eye is quite intriguing."

"Mmm," John nodded, his mouth stuffed with the food that only arrived 10 seconds ago. "Must be lovely."

The side of Sherlock's mouth turned up into a smirk, and he twisted his fork around in his spaghetti and shoved it hungrily into his mouth. After he swallowed his first bite, his gaze fell upon a teenage couple who were holding hands at the counter as one of their parents paid. It wasn't the concept of teenage 'love' that intrigued Sherlock, it was the sight of red and inflamed slits that were present on both their wrists. He observed them more thoroughly, the way the boy smiled down at the girl, and the way he ran his free hand gently down the girl's arm and along the cuts, and the way the girl grinned back, how he squeezed her hand in a supportive and loving gesture. It made Sherlock's heart squeeze in an uncomfortable way, as for an instant he swear he saw John and himself doing the same thing; John supporting Sherlock with his self destruction (he refused to call it self-harm), even in a miniscule way in public would mean a lot to Sherlock. In a way, Sherlock had always been self destructive. At a young age, he would lock himself in his room and conduct silly experiments just so he could be away from his degrading family. In his teenage years, he started smoking, doing drugs and cutting; he liked the way it stimulated his brain to a higher level, calmed his nerves and gave him a small rush of adrenaline. Of course he outgrew all these things, or so he thought. Solving cases now gave him a rush of adrenaline and made him happy; in retrospect. But when there were no cases to solve and the only thing to do was hang around the apartment, Sherlock grew bored and the self destructive feeling he abandoned long ago was slowly seeping back in, like a poisonous gas slowly shutting down his organs. As boredom increased, so did Sherlock's need for self destruction.

John suddenly realized the fixed and neurotic state Sherlock was in.

"Sher-"

"How much would it take for me to push you away?" Sherlock interrupted, staring John straight in the eyes.

"W-what?" John stammered, bewildered by the sudden outburst from Sherlock.

"How much absurdity can I perform before you walk out on me?"

"I would never walk out on you, no matter what you did. Even if you killed a man." John replied, eyeing Sherlock back, in a determined way. He would never leave Sherlock, of course not. As much as he hated to admit it, he loved the eccentric man to bits; not like Sherlock knew that. "...Why?"

Sherlock frowned, crossed his arms and looked away.

Such a child, John thought, mentally smiling.

"Nevermind," Sherlock grumbled, looking unappetizingly at the plate of food on the table.

"Sherlock, look at me."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John said softly, cautiously reaching across the table to take Sherlock's hand in his own. But as soon as he did, so, Sherlock ripped his hand out of John's angrily and started to stalk out of the restaurant.

"Shit," John sighed, before getting up and slowly following Sherlock outside. And what awaited him outside was a cruel and harsh scene. Sherlock sat against a wall, his knees brought up to his chest with his jacket off and his shirt sleeve pulled up. He cradled one arm against his thigh and with the other hand he was grabbing desperately at his skin, marvelling at the long cuts drawn lazily across his forearm. John's knees almost buckled at the sight, Sherlock all broken down and vulnerable. In his 3 years of knowing him, he never saw Sherlock like this.

"Sh-sherlock!" John wailed, throwing himself down to Sherlock's level and grabbing his arm, staring at the sore and red slits that were painted on a canvas that was Sherlock's arm. "_**What did you do?!**_"


End file.
